


Inconceivable

by Arya_Greenleaf



Series: Fandom Holiday Exchanges [1]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bedtime Stories, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Steggy Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5482301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arya_Greenleaf/pseuds/Arya_Greenleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During that all too short lull between Christmas and the New Year, Steve and Peggy are woken in the middle of the night when their child comes down with a serious bug. At a loss for a method of distraction for the uncomfortable little boy, Steve offers up a fantastic spin on the story of his and Peggy's meeting and falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my gift for [shatterpath](http://shatterpath.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for the 2015 Steggy Secret Santa hosted by [fuckyeahsteveandpeggy.](http://fuckyeahsteveandpeggy.tumblr.com/)
> 
> SP was happy with "all of the above" and expressed an interest in some kind of medieval-esque fantasy AU. I thought the best way to incorporate as many of their interests as possible was to do something in the spirit of _The Princess Bride_. SP is actually a pretty frequent commenter of my fic, so I didn't quite think they'd mind if I wrote a new story for one of my existing continuities. This one takes place in 1953, Steve and Peggy's son is seven years old.
> 
> I hope you like it! Happy Holidays!  
> \--AG

The brownstone was still and dark.

The only sounds were that of the house settling. Floorboards and beams shifting and squeaking softly. If they listened closely enough, they could hear the brand new _Sentry_ ticking to life and pushing hot air through the vents.

Heat still radiated from the fireplace even though the embers had long since been tamped out, the bubble of warmth served to ward off chilly toes as they poked out of the bottom of the lush crochet afghan Angie had gifted them with just a few days before.

Someone outside was beginning their celebration of the New Year early, laughing and singing in a happily off-key tone. Peggy thought she recognized the voice as the young gentleman who lived with his parents and grandparents down the block. He’d shoveled off their front stairs for them just that morning. They’d have to call him up and ask him to repeat the job if the fluffy white flakes outside the window kept falling at the rate they were. Steve would grin and press an extra dollar or two into the young man’s hand, claiming it was for the holidays, that he should take his best girl out somewhere nice to say hello to January.

Peggy sighed and tipped her head back, baring her throat to Steve’s ministrations. His big hands gripped her waist, thumbs pressing up into her ribs with _just_ the right pressure as soft lips and slick tongue swept across the sensitive skin of her throat.

Thank goodness it was winter. A sweater with a high collar wouldn’t be out of place.

“Steve.”

“Mmm.”

“Steve.”

“Peg.” She shuddered as his hand gripped her buttock tightly through her thick flannel nightdress.

“I heard something.”

He stopped, lips hovering, hand still gripping. She’d definitely heard something. Steve sat up, a serious set to his jaw as he peered out into the darkness of the hallway beyond their bedroom.

Peggy slipped out of bed, palming the hair fork off of her bedside table as she did, the decorative top clutched in her fist with the sharp prongs sticking out on either side of her middle finger.

Steve crept out into the hall on soundless, bare feet. He raised a hand, “I think it’s just James.”

Peggy stepped into the hall behind him and heard the distinctive snuffle of her son trying and failing to hide his upset. Steve reached the boy’s bedroom first, flipping on the light in the hall to avoid blinding him entirely.

“What’s the matter, mo leanbh?”

James promptly burst into tears. Peggy twisted her hair up into a knot and shoved the fork down into it, the acrid smell of sick wafting across the room. “I don’t feel good!” he wailed.

Steve crossed the room in a few long strides, pressing his lips to the sweat-dampened curls at their child’s temple as he leaned across the bed to strip away the soiled comforter, unfazed by the situation. Peggy swooped in and scooped him up, “Darling you’re alright.”

She pressed her cheek to his forehead to discreetly check his temperature as he clung to her, his fists clutching at the collar of her nightdress and his legs wrapped around her waist like a vice. Steve balled up the comforter and shoved it down the laundry chute in the hall—out of sight out of mind. He frowned deeply when he returned and pressed the back of his hand to the back of the boy’s neck.

“Christ.”

“He’s burning up.”

“M-m-my behh- _lll_ -eeee hurts.”

“I’ll go start a bath.”

Peggy sank down carefully onto the edge of James’ bed, “My love, let’s get you out of these pajamas, yes?” He sniffled and nodded and allowed her to work his fingers free from her collar. He was shivering in spite of his fever. “Did you feel sick today?” He nodded and shivered harder, goosebumps raising on his bare skin. Peggy plucked his robe off of the bedpost and wrapped it around him, rubbing his limbs briskly. The sound of running water echoed from the bathroom. “All day?” He nodded again. “Why didn’t you tell us, darling?”

“I didn’ wa-wa-wanna be sick! I didn’ wanna ruin C-C-Christmas _sss_.” He sobbed, his chest heaving with the effort. He wheezed, panic widening his eyes.

Peggy pulled him in close and picked him up once more, “Darling, Christmas is over. And you couldn’t ever ruin it.”

Steve was leaning over the big claw-footed tub in the yellowish light from over the mirror. He swirled his hand around in it and shook the water off. He gently pried James out of Peggy’s arms. “C’mon, in y’go.”

Steve and Peggy spoke in soft tones, taking turns dipping a washcloth into the lukewarm bath to rub gently over James’ neck and shoulders as they knelt beside the tub, towels folded under their knees.

“Should we take him to hospital?”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” He pressed the back of his dry hand to the boy’s forehead and cheeks. “Maybe if he’s still hot in the morning.” Peggy nodded, trusting his judgement—he couldn’t have lived with a mother who was a nurse and have been in and out of a sickbed most of his youth without having picked up a thing or two. “How about you come to bed with us?” Steve smiled down at James’ splotchy little face. “You can put yer new pajamas on. The ones from Gramma Winnie.” James nodded and allowed himself to be taken out of the tub. Peggy rubbed him down with a towel while Steve went to fetch the nightclothes.

“Come on then, into bed you go.” James crawled across the mattress and allowed Peggy to arrange a fresh pillow from the linen closet behind his head before she settled in beside him. Steve slipped into bed, a look of mild worry creasing his brow and he felt the skin of their fitfully resting child’s back beneath his soft, blue pajama shirt. Steve cringed when he shifted, burying himself deeper into the pillow and clinging closer to Peggy’s chest. In a quiet, scratchy voice, he asked for a glass of water. Steve obliged, urging James to sit up and drink slowly. “I don’t like this.”

Steve laughed softly, running his fingers through James’s dark curls. “Of course y’don’t.” Peggy frowned hard. “If he’s still hot in the morning, we’ll go see a doctor. The bath helped.”

Peggy agreed and tried to settle in, sleep mostly eluding her.

***

Steve was putting up a front.

He was worried out of his mind.

They’d watched James’s health carefully, never sure what, if any, of Steve’s own issues from before the serum would appear and when. They took each cough and cold seriously, though not fanatically.

James was wheezing in his sleep, his chest rattling and tight sounding. His skin was covered in a light sheen of sweat, the hair at his temples and the nape of his neck damp with it.

It seemed to have come on so suddenly—Steve went over the last few days, trying to pick out any anomaly in his child’s behavior that might have signaled the start of his illness. He thought back to his own brushes with influenza and pneumonia and the scarlet fever that had left him hard of hearing—his heart thundered in his chest at the thought of his child dealing with any of that.

Sleep came in starts and stops, each small shift of a limb or pattern of breathing snapping him to alert.

Steve reached behind himself blindly, groping at alarm clock to stop its tinny ringing when it went off, trying not to move too much and disturb the sleep of his son and wife. He looked down at the still overly-warm boy with his back pressed flushed to Steve’s chest, his slender fingers twined into a lock of Peggy’s hair.

Peggy came to life slowly, her eyes darting behind fluttering lids like she was being pulled from some vivid dream. She blinked rapidly to focus, fatigue clear on her face. “I’ll call out of the office.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Daniel can handle things.”

“Peg, y’just got new inf’mation on another obelisk. Y’can’t.”

She gently disentangled James’s fingers from her hair, her brow creased with concern as she felt his forehead. “He’s more important than those bloody obelisks.”

“Fever’s not as bad.” Steve carefully shifted, tucking his pillow down behind James’s body as he sat up. “What do I do all day? Draw. That’s what the table’s for. I can work from home jus’as easily as I can go inna the office.” Steve stretched and rubbed his face, trying to get himself moving. “You keep the rest of us safe. Can’t do that from home. What’s the point’a me cuttin’ down on the amount of time I spend out of missions to be able to stay home with the kid when he needs it if I don’t stay home with the kid when he needs it?”

Peggy frowned and stretched. “When the hell did you ever get so reasonable?”

Steve laughed soundlessly and wiggled his heels down into his house loafers. “Somewhere around the first time he looked at me.”

Peggy pulled her robe on and crept toward the bathroom, expertly avoiding the squeaky board in the middle of the hall. “Didn’t stop you from jumping out of any more planes.”

Steve leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “Yeah, but I started wearin’ a parachute.” Peggy rolled her eyes at him in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. “Go, Peg. I got things covered here. You know you’ll have a much easier day bein’ there makin’ sure Thompson isn’t fuckin’ things up than bein’ here wonderin’ if he is.”

“I’m still going to worry.”

“So call home every thirty minutes of ya have’ta. I promise everything will be fine. I’ll call you if he turns around again.”

Peggy pursed her lips, indecisive, and then nodded. She lingered in the bedroom, hovering over the sleeping child for a few minutes longer before she left.

Steve called the _Timely_ office from the phone in the upstairs hall, checking in to see if there were any messages for him and assuring his editor that he’d finish his line art by the deadline. He swept into James’s room to strip the bed, the lingering scent of salty sweat wafting up at him as he did.

A wave of guilt washed over him as he shoved the sheets and pillowcases down the laundry chute. He reviewed the last week in his head again, trying to pinpoint some moment that he should have caught it, that he should have known that James was ill, or would be.

James had seemed his usual, upbeat self just days before. They’d had a house full of people. The boys were all miraculously in town at the same time, Stark had stopped by, the Jarvises had spent several hours, the Barneses swept in and out at frequent intervals as if in their own home. Angie had been with them nearly a full twenty-four hours, spread out on the living room floor threading garlands of popcorn and cranberries with James—more of the popcorn ending up being eaten than making it onto the tree. James had flitted through the crowds of tall legs happily, fingers and lips sticky with powdered sugar and melted candy-cane in a cloud of peppermint-scented cheer.

Looking back, his festive mood had probably been pure adrenaline and sugar.

“Papa?” His voice was small and raspy.

“Good morning.”

“I don’t feel good.”

“I know.”

“Do I have t’go ta school today?” He rubbed his eyes and frowned.

“No, you don’t have to go back until after we change the calendar, remember?” He frowned and licked at dry, chapped lips. “How about we get those teeth brushed?” Settled back into bed with a clean mouth and untangled hair, James curled into Steve’s side. “Are you still tired?” He shook his head, though the dark circles under his eyes said otherwise. The light coming through the curtains was grey, the sun blocked by the snow falling outside. “How on Earth are we gonna spend the day, mo leanbh?” He shrugged and picked at a loose thread on the cuff of Steve’s sleeve. “How about a story?”

“What kinda story?”

Steve pursed his lips, racking his brain for something he didn’t think James had heard a thousand times, something to distract him from his discomfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Sentry is a brand of forced-air home heating system popular in the 1940s.
> 
> "Gramma Winnie" is Winnifred Barnes, Bucky's mother.
> 
> "Mo leanbh" means "my child" in Irish.


	2. Chapter 2

There was once a young man from a small village in the realm called _Breukelen_ , over the Bridge of Steel and Stone, beyond the Eastern River—called Steven.

Steven wanted nothing more than to find peace, for his life had been one of constant struggle. Though that was not to say that it had not also been a happy one. He had known the unyielding love of a mother, had walked through days and battles at the side of a friend he could call brother. He had known the satisfaction of work and passion.

Nothing came without a price. The world seemed to desire that _everyone_ pay heftily for whatever happiness they’d found.

Rather, not the world at large, but a collection of men who had seized power.

Steven watched from his home as men he had gown with took up arms and traveled across the Wide Waters to defeat those men. He saw that to find peace, he must find a way to fight for it himself. If the world was in turmoil how could any one person say that they were not? He could not stand by and watch.

The problem was, that no lord world accept him into their fold.

Steven was small of stature, thin and fair and often sickly. No one would see him become a knight. They were all convinced he would die before he saw battle, that training him would be a waste of time and effort, that he would serve as not more than a distraction for better men.

Steven would do anything to do his part. Hough he impressed this upon every lord he appealed to, none would see the value in his conviction.

There were those among his peers that did not share Steven’s conviction—a concept that he often grappled with both verbally and physically. In the midst of one such a fight, unexpected aid prevented him from being beaten down completely.

“You’ve got yer orders then?” Steven swiped at his bloodied lip. He imagined the bloom of the bruises that would undoubtedly appear on his limbs and across his ribs come eventide.

“Mhmm. Banneret Barnes shipping out in the morning—reporting for duty across the Wide Waters under the one-hundred-and-seventh fiefdom.” Steven’s friend and brother, Buchannan, grinned in his jaunty way and smoothed the front of his fine jacket. The gold embroidery denoting his position glinted in the afternoon light, his brass toggles polished to a high shine.

“So, it’s your last night then.”

“And I’m spendin’ it with you.” Buchannan slung his arm around Steven’s shoulders and led him from the alley they had been fighting in. “And I even found a pair of fine ladies to accompany us.”

“Where’r we goin’?”

“The future.”

The future turned out to be a packed faire-ground. Ladies and gentlemen alike clamored to see the fantastic gismos and magic worked by the most skilled alchemists and mages and maesters of the realm. Steven lingered behind his friends, unnerved by the cold behavior of the lady Buchannan’s intended had brought along. Try as he might, her countenance would not match the softness of her silks.

He watched with mild interest as the maester called Stark demonstrated his latest invention—a chariot that produced its own power to travel. Overwhelmed by the crowd and thinking he would not be missed, Buchannan enraptured by the feat of magic and engineering, Steven wandered into a less crowded spot. He soon found himself at a recruitment post.

“Yer gonna get yourself arrested, Steven. You know it’s forbidden to appeal for apprenticeship outside of your village if you own no land—and what’s more, appealing under false names, under false pretense.”

“I have to _try_. I don’t have any right to do anything less than anyone else.”

“There is plenty you could do. You—“

“What? I could what? Sew banners that’ll be torn and burned, trampled underfoot? Collect metal for armor and horse shoes like a child? I won’t. I _can’t_.”

“But you’d be _safe_.”

“What’s the use of safety when other men are laying down their lives?”

“You’re really gonna do this? Again?” Buchannan frowned, unhappy but knowing the force of Steven’s determination. “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid until I come back?”

“How could I? You’re takin’ all the stupid with _you_.”

Unbeknownst to Steven, he was being watched.

He submitted once more to the prodding hands of a healer, answered the same series of questions he’d answered five times before, choosing his words more carefully each time. As he dressed once more he was instructed to wait and a guard stepped into the room. Steven’s chest constricted with fear. Was he about to be thrown into jail? Had his deceptions finally been discovered?

The curtain was thrown back, a bespectacled man in maester’s robes bustled in and dismissed the guard. Steven noted the intricately linked chain draped over his front and the plain colors of his clothing—much more subdued than Maester Stark in the pavilion outside.

“So, you want to sail across the Wide Waters and kill yourself some Nazis, ah?” His accent was heavy, turning his words up at the ends. Steven tried to keep his expression neutral, ashamed at the curiosity he felt.

“Excuse me?”

“I am Archmaester Abraham Erskine. I represent the Strategic Allied Resistance.” Steven readily took the maester’s hand and introduced himself. He took the opportunity to casually ask where Erskine was from. “Fresh Meadows.” He paused briefly, Steven waited for him to continue. “Originally, Germania. This troubles you?”

Steven shook his head, more surprised at how little it did than anything else. He came from a village of people displaced or transplanted from far and wide for a variety of reasons. He’d grown up with old languages and closely guarded customs. Would he be any more troubled by his neighbors than he was by this man? Certainly not.

“Where are _you_ from?” Erskine began to list off the names of the places Steven had lied and said he hailed from on his many appeals to be taken in by the realm’s army. Steven began to protest, to try to deny that those documents all belonged to him. Erskine waved him off. “It is the five tries I am interested in. The determination. You have not yet answered my question: _do you want to kill Nazis?_ ” Each word came out with punctuation.

Steven took a deep breath, “Is this a test?” Erskine nodded, exasperated. “I don’t wanna kill any’un.” He paused, trying to find the right words for what he was about to say. Trying to put into a concise thought his need for peace, why it was such a personal battle, why it made him sick to see the War going on. “I don’t like bullies. I don’t care where they’re from, who they are.”

Erskine’s reaction was unreadable. “Well, we already have so many big men fighting this war.” He paused for a beat. Steven held his breath. “Maybe what we need now is the little guy, yeah?”

The next few minutes became a blur. Erskine, the archmaester, a man of importance and influence, was offering _him_ a chance. A man of no consequence, a man who had failed and been denied time after time. A new seal was pressed onto the documents that Erskine passed to him, a _1A_ that gave him a spot in the closest training grounds and a chance to do the things he knew in his gut were necessary and right.

Steven’s step was lighter as he made his way home from the faire-grounds. He let himself into the small cabin he shared with Buchannan, the whole place dark and quiet except for the soft sounds of snoring and the squeak of the mattress as the sleeper shifted. Hours had passed, Steven had taken his time, wandering and meandering along twisting paths and stopping to watch the glittering stars overhead. He’d expected Buchannan to be out all night, spending his last hours before he went to war with his intended.

Buchannan rolled over and rubbed his eyes when Steven lit a candle to see. “Y’okay?”

“Yeah, you?”

“Yeah. Come wi’me? T’the dock.”

“Uh’course. Go back t’sleep.” Buchannan turned back over, settling into his pillow and pulling his blanket up over his shoulder. Steven looked down at the document in his hands, half expecting it to disappear. He stowed it in the box he kept beneath his bed and settled in for the night, blowing his candle out.

The following morning, Steven made himself scarce while Buchannan made his way slowly through packing the few belongings he would be taking with him—a few sets of olive colored clothes, boots, a coat, a book to pass the time on his voyage, a small photograph of his family he planned to tuck inside his helmet. They traveled through the streets of their village shoulder to shoulder, accepting somber nods and wishes of good luck and good health prompted by the banneret in his regalia with his bag slung across his shoulders. After breaking fast with Buchannan’s parents and sister, the group departed for the docks to see him off.

Steven hung back, not wanting to overstep his bounds as they all bid their beloved son and brother farewell. A strong hand fell on his shoulder, “Please, promise me yer not gonna do anything stupid.” Steven thought of the document hidden away in their bedroom back home. He nodded, meeting Buchannan’s gaze without shame. “I’ve been savin’ my wages. In the tea tin, there’s at least a month’s worth. Just in case.” They embraced tightly before Buchannan turned to walk up the ramp and onto the ship that would bear him across the Wide Waters and into the fray.

Steven had a week before he was to report for training. It was just enough time to put his affairs in order. He would be telling the Barnes family that he couldn’t afford the small home he and Buchannan shared on his own, not with his work as unsteady as it was. He put the idea in their head that he was making calls, looking for War-effort employment. Before he left, he would explain that he’d found something in the neighboring fief—far enough that he would need to find new lodgings.

He looked around his home, looked at the furniture that his late mother had chosen so carefully. He packed away his belongings in an old trunk, as few as they were, packing Buchannan’s separately. Thankfully, the Barnes family would offer to store Steve’s things in their attic, he wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with them.

His departure at the train station would be almost as full of emotion as Buchannan’s had been. He made promises to write letters often and visit if he could, giving them what felt like false hope that their adopted son might come home even if Buchannan did not.

Steven found it hard to look back. If he did, he might change his mind—and with the 1A stamped in bright red wax on the document in his pocket that was impossible now.

As soon as he arrived at Camp Leigh, Steven realized the exception to the rule he would be. Surrounded by men that outweighed him twice over and towered above him, he resolved not to let Archmaester Erskine feel that he’d wasted his time on Steven. He settled in, claiming the bed that had been assigned to him with little trouble. He ate his first meal in the Mess and retreated to sleep for the night.

Sleep eluded him mostly, however, kept away by the mounting anticipation that curled into his chest and belly like a restless cat and the racing of his imagination at the rumors of just who the Allied Liaison they would be meeting in the morning was.

She stepped onto the barren dirt training field with her shoulders square and her chin high. The silk-satin of her coat shone in the early morning sunlight, subtle gold threads in patterns denoting her title and rank glistening against the lush brown fabric. The tails of her officer’s coat flapped behind her as she walked, snapping in the breeze. The precise curls in her hair did nothing to hide the elegant curvature to the tips of her ears if that was the aim, if anything the styling drew more attention to it.

“I am Lady Margaret. I oversee _all_ operations for this unit.”

Steven recognized the lilt in her voice immediately.

It was true what they said about the Ljósálfar, they were more brilliant than the sun. Everything about Lady Margaret spoke of quiet power from her stride to her stance.

He felt drawn to her like a magnet, the pure desire to _know_ her building above all else. To know who she was, how she’d found herself a part of the War, how she’d come into the position of overseeing what seemed, so far, to Steven like a highly classified operation.

One of the men a few paces down the line said something rude. Steven watched carefully as Lady Margaret approached him, a dangerous calm about her.

“What’s your name, _squire?”_

“Hodges.”

“Hodges, put your foot just here.” He put his foot forward where she indicated and asked in a sarcastic tone if they were about to wrestle. Lady Margaret responded with a solid hook to his nose. Hodges dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes. She raised her brows and clasped her hands behind her back delicately while Hodges struggled to his feet. Ljósálfar were far stronger than their delicate features and general beauty would imply. “Anyone else? No?”

Colonel Phillips—a man Steven would fight to impress with all that he had in him, strolled up behind Lady Margaret with a grim expression and instructed Hodges to get up off the ground.

Phillips introduced the men Steven was standing with to the role they would be fulfilling—just one of them would be declared worthy, chosen to receive some bit of magic from the archmaester. They would need to prove themselves to Erskine, Phillips, and Lady Margaret—whom he referred to only by her family name. The ease of the dynamic between the two was evident.

“Carter!”

“Sir?”

“Put ‘em t’work.” She smiled, the subtle curl to the corners of her lips almost dangerous.

Steven pushed himself, trying to keep up with the other men as they were put through their paces. His arms trembled, his heart felt as though it were going to burst, his lungs like they were in a vice grip. He barely registered the sounds of the shouting around him as a small object flew through the air, lobbed from the direction Phillips and Erskine were standing.

It was as if time slowed by seconds when the object bounced in font of Steven—a pot of wildfire, its safety pin missing.

He dropped to the ground, curling his body around the weapon, shouting for the others to stay back.

Steven waited for the explosion, for the volatile liquid in the shell he was laying on to activate, for the pain that it would bring.

“It’s just a dud!” Shaking, he uncurled his body, glancing around, noticing that everyone else had run away—and that Lady Margaret had rushed toward him. He looked up at her in disbelief and glanced toward Erskine.

“Is this a test?”

The look of satisfaction on Lady Margaret’s face was hard to gauge—had he passed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Breuckelen_ refers to the original Dutch town that would grow into Brooklyn, NY. Erskine says in the movie that he lives at 73rd  & Utopia Pkwy. (Though, he says street rather than avenue which is literally incorrect). That location is at the border of the Utopia & Fresh Meadows neighborhoods in Queens, NY.
> 
> A knight banneret is a knight who led a group of men under his own banner rather than someone else's. A banneret was a "commoner of rank," which made sense to me as a parallel to Bucky's rank of sergeant, one of the highest an enlisted man ("commoner") could achieve. A "fief" is the property owned by a noble-person which I am putting into parallel with BK and NY as the area contributing men to the 107th. The neighboring fief that Steve moves to for work, or so he claims, is New Jersey (where Camp Leigh is located in the movies).
> 
> I've absolutely taken "maester" from _A Song of Ice & Fire/Game of Thrones_. It refers to someone who has been specially/highly trained as a scholar in a variety of subjects and is considered both an authority and valuable adviser aside from whatever his particular skills are. I thought that fit well with both Erskine and Stark's roles in their own ways.
> 
> The Ljósálfar are the "light elves" from Norse mythology that hail from Alfheim. I thought it was a nice way to bring in a fantasy element and to tie in the Norse element of the source material that we already have with the Tesseract. The "pot of wildfire" is obviously the grenade.


	3. Chapter 3

James shifted and stretched and yawned, “Is this a story about you ‘n Mama?”

“Is that okay?” The boy nodded and sneezed forcefully, a frown creating his face as he burrowed down against Steve’s side. “How’s yer belly, mo leanbh?” It still hurt. “Like you’re gonna be sick?” James shook his head. “Then that’s probably because it’s empty! Breakfast?”

They traipsed down the stairs, the blanket from Angie trailing behind them. James settled himself into his usual corner of the couch, bundled into a cocoon of his bathrobe and the soft afghan. “Can you make a fire?”

“The heat’s on buddy. You cold?”

“No, I jus’ like it. A little one.”

“Alright, a little one.” Steve loaded a few hunks of wood into the fireplace, poking at them to get them to catch from the match he tossed in on top of a wadded up page from yesterday’s paper. “I’ll be back, okay?” James nodded, already finding his toes from within the layers he was surrounded by and angling his feet toward the hardly noticeable heat from the fireplace.

Steve retreated to the kitchen, searching through the cupboards for something that wouldn’t sit in the boy’s gut like a lump—James wasn’t a particular fan of oatmeal as it was and Steve wasn’t keen in scrubbing it off of the couch if it came back up. He settled on toast, hacking thin slices off of the crusty loaf Peggy had baked just the day before and carefully sliding them into the toaster. With water on to boil for tea and the glass jar of honey set close to the stove to drive off some of the crystallization, Steve took the phone from its cradle on the wall.

“Hello, Mrs. B?”

“How many times has she told y’da just call ‘er _Ma_?”

“Buck, you know I—“

“Winnie, then. The kid calls ‘er Winnie.”

“I didn’t expect you to be over there so bright ‘n early.”

“Ah, y’know Ma doesn’t like it when I’m alone fer the holidays. And Bec’s not headin’ back to school until after New Year’s, figured we’d pile into the old room and pretend we were twelve again.” They laughed. “What’s up?”

“Can you just let yer ma know I don’t need a sitter today?”

“Somethin’ happen?”

“Kind of, I guess?” Steve explained how they’d spent the better part of their night. “He’s still pretty warm. I think I’m gonna give ‘im another bath later.”

“Give us a ring if y’need anything.”

“Actually—“

“I suddenly regret offering.”

“I’m just jokin’. I’m sure James wouldn’t mind seein’ his favorite uncle to cheer ‘im up, though.”

“We’ll see. It’s really comin’ down out there. You got somebody t’shovel you out or yer gonna do it yourself?”

Steve imagined James’s disappointed face out the window as he shoveled off the front stairs and the boy was denied the right to come outside and flop down in the fresh powder. “I’ll get the kid down the block. I’m sure he could use a little extra cash.”

“Alright, well, Aunt Siobhan’ll be gettin’ in on the train tonight. I’m sure she’ll have somethin’ for James. In the meantime I gotta convince Ma that it’s not necessary’da rearrange the entire goddamn livin’ room fer some’un who’ll only be here a week.”

Steve laughed, “Good luck with that.” After reassurances that if he needed anything, Bucky would be there at the drop of a hat, he hung the phone up. By that time the second round of toast had popped and was waiting to be buttered and the kettle was whistling softly. Steve swept into the living room, plate piled high with warm bread and two steaming mugs looped around the fingers of the other hand. No sooner did he set everything down on the side table, there was a knock at the door. Sure enough, the young man from down the block stood on the stoop, a good six inches of snow around his feet, and a shovel over his shoulder. Steve chuckled at the hopeful look on his face, “Have at it. Come inside when you’re done, I’ll put coffee on.” The young man grinned and swung his shovel around to set to work on the landing.

James was nibbling at his toast, the afghan in a fluffy pool around his waist as he said cross-legged on the couch. “Sit with me.” Steve obliged happily, drawing his knees up and wrapping his hands around his mug, the tangy-sweet smell of tea and honey wafting up with the steam. James leaned back, using Steve’s shins for a recliner. “Can you finish yer story?”

“Where were we?”

***

Peggy had one eye on her work and the other firmly on the clock. She didn’t want to seem as though she were hovering. James could be clingy and needy and altogether distraught when ill, but if he got one single whiff of either of his parents worrying or doting e tended to get very cross. He liked to think he was in control of the situation, allowing Steve and herself to tend to him in just the way he wanted.

She also didn’t want Steve to think she thought his judgement or parenting poor.

It had been a long while since James had been ill enough to warrant truly close attention. It made her nervous how suddenly it had come on. She supposed with the revolving door that their front foyer had become over the Christmas holidays with visits from friends and friends-turned-family that she should have been surprised if he _hadn’t_ picked something up along the way.

So she waited.

She counted the minutes until she could reasonably take her lunch break, snatching her coat from the stand and sweeping toward the elevator before any of the _gentlemen_ in the office could think to ask her to take their order to return with.

Motherhood already seemed to make her more _other_ in their eyes. She scoffed softly to herself, thinking of how they would be scandalized at the thought of a mother actually mothering her child.

Angie ushered her to a table when she arrived at the automat, a cup of coffee already in hand. Peggy sank down into the booth, “Thank you.”

Ana Jarvis smiled in her secretive way from the other side, “You look like hell, Peggy.”

She barked out a laugh, “How’d you know I’d be here?”

“Edwin thought you’d be, you are a creature of habit. We’ve been cooking all morning for Howard’s party. I needed to get away from the house for a bit.” Angie slipped into the booth beside Peggy, unpinning her cap as she did. “Tell me, what’s wrong?”

Peggy wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. Another of the waitresses brought her usual order and something for Ana and Angie as well, Angie having evidently clocked out. Peggy explained that James was ill, that Steve was home, and that it was driving her to distraction to not be there as well. Angie frowned and chewed an overly large bite of her sandwich. Ana patted Peggy’s hand comfortingly.

“It sounds like a terrible bug. He was better this morning, yes?”

“A bit.”

“And Steve would call you immediately if there was any change for the worse.”

“Yes.”

Ana smiled softly, “Then don’t worry yourself so! Children get sick, they get better.”

Peggy let out her breath in a whoosh. “When it is _your_ son then, I will simply have to remind you of that.” She smiled at her own ridiculousness, her face flushed. “I am worrying far too much, aren’t I?”

“I believe so.”

Angie dabbed at her lips with a napkin, “You got every reason t’worry, English, but I think Ana’s right.” They ate in silence for a few moments, the stress of the morning slowly dissipating in the decidedly much more pleasant company than the SSR office. “You need a sitter? I’ve got off tomarr’ah.”

Peggy shrugged, “Depends on how James is doing, I suppose. Steve took off from work. I wish he hadn’t, he’s got a deadline coming up. He’s never happy with his line art when he rushes. He’ll be brooding for a week.”

Angie took a long sip of her Coke, “He works from home sometimes, right?” Peggy nodded. “I could swing by and entertain the gattino for a few hours while he gets some draw’rin done.”

Ana placed her utensils carefully at the edge of her plate, “I’m coming over this evening with food.”

“We’re supposed to take care of _him_ , you’re not supposed to take care of _us._ ”

“Why have friends if ya don’t let ‘em do anything for ya?” They chatted casually while they finished their meal. When they were finished, Angie pressed an exaggerated kiss to Peggy’s cheek, holding Peggy’s chin between her fingers. “I’ve gotta run, audition at three downtown. Wish me luck!” Ana grinned when she got a kiss as well, turning her cheek to reciprocate. “And let me know about sittin’. I don’t mind in the least if it’ll give the two’a you a little breathin’ room.”

Ana lingered, finishing her coffee. “I have the car, I will bring something by your house for dinner.” Peggy insisted it wasn’t necessary. Ana waved a hand in dismissal. “One less thing to worry about—and you know my soup works wonders. How many times has it cured Howard when he’s been kissing too many people all at once?” Peggy snorted, narrowly avoiding having her own coffee come right out of her nose. “Boys, girls, his own reflection…”

“Oh!” Peggy laughed, her face glowing with the effort of it.

“Ah, there’s the smile.” Ana reached across the table and patted Peggy’s cheek lovingly. “I will take care of the check, you go use the phone. Call your boy and calm your nerves.”

Peggy did just that, popping a coin into the payphone in the corner and listening to the ringing as she waited for someone to answer.

“’Lo. Carter-Rogers.”

“Hello, my darling.”

“Hey, Peg.”

“How is he?”

“Better, I think. Still warm, but he’s holdin’ breakfast down. Doesn’t seem as miserable. Wanna talk to ‘im?”

“Absolutely.”

“Hi.”

“Hello, my love. How are you feeling?” Ana came and leaned against the wall, adjusting her hat in her reflection against the glass phone booth.

“Crummy.”

“Well that’s not good. Would you like me to come home? I can be there in a jif.”

“Mmm… no, that’s okay. You kin stay.”

“Are you certain?”

“Uh huh. Papa’s makin’ lunch.”

“What is he making?”

“I dunno. Did you eat lunch yet?”

“I did. I’m at the automat now.”

“With Aunt Angie?”

“Mhm, and Ana.”

“Tell Ana… tell her… boldog Karácsonyt!” His Hungarian came out a bit butchered, sounding more like James had instructed his mother to tell Ana Jarvis _bulldog catch-coin._ “No!”

“No?”

“She does Hanukkah. But she didn’t teach me how to say that one her way.”

Peggy laughed softly, “I think she’ll be pleased either way, darling.” Finished with her call, Peggy walked with Ana to the door, the latter offering to drive her back to the office. Peggy declined, the brick winter air and the begrudgingly cheerful tone of her son’s voice brightening her mood by degrees.

***

“Ana’s comin’ fer dinner.” Steve set down a plate heaped with slices of apple and hunks of carrot and a large glob of peanut butter in front of James. The boy swung his legs back and forth, his toes just skimming the floor under the table.  He was still flushed, but he was more awake and alert, more energetic.

“D’ya think she’d like t’eat in here or at the dining table?” Steve set his knife down in the sink and sat down at the kitchen table himself, a spoonful of peanut butter like a lollipop in his hand.

“Dining table.” James bit into an apple slice, the juice making his lips shine. “Can you keep tellin’ the story?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Gattino_ means "little cat" in Italian. Angie's got nicknames for everyone, of this I am 100% confident. 
> 
> _Boldog Karácsonyt_ is Hungarian for "Merry Christmas."
> 
> If anyone speaks either language and can correct any error, please do.


	4. Chapter 4

Steven had hardly felt it when the needle-like blade, thrown with a precise hand, had skimmed his side. He was hardly aware he was even hurt until he finally stopped running, his pulse throbbing in the edges of the cut.

“Hail Hydra!” The enemy assassin whispered as he cracked a vial of poison between his teeth. Steven shook him, demanding an answer, demanding he pay for the crime of killing Archmaester Erskine—the only one who’d thought to give him a chance, who’d given him the incredible gift of the body he was now inhabiting.

Steven looked down at his trembling hands, so much bigger than they used to be. His chest wasn’t tight, his heart wasn’t pounding, his back didn’t ache.

Lady Margaret skidded to a halt, an arrow half knocked in her bow. She watched him with wonder and interest, her eyes falling to the bloom of red on his flank.

The magic Erskine had worked had been as painful as the slice of the assassin’s blade hadn’t been. It was as if Steven had been lit aflame, the sun too bright and too close, making his joints ache and his muscles stretch to the point he’d felt he might come undone.

A healer with a precisely pursed mouth drew blood from Steven’s arm when they returned to privacy of the hidden maester’s inner sanctum. They’d bandaged his wound, examined him thoroughly.

“I am so sorry, Steven.” He was numb, angry. “But Maester Erskine did not write anything down, he did not share his methods for fear of any of it falling into the wrong hands. When I rescued him from Germania—from the Red Skull—he made it quite clear that he never wanted to be responsible for another monster in the world.”

“So that’s what I am?”

Lady Margaret gripped his chin hard, made him look at her, meet her gaze. “Absolutely not. You are _hope_.” Her nostrils flared and her brows furrowed. He’d gathered over the course of his training and from her emotional response to the maester’s death—most uncharacteristic of the ethereal and even-flowing Ljósálfar—that the two had been very friendly. If Lady Margaret had freed Erskine from the Skull’s catacomb-prison, it did not surprise Steven in the least that they should care for each other. They’d clearly survived a great deal of danger together. “But you are singular hope if we cannot unlock Erskine’s secrets. Your blood may now be the only key.”

The Colonel was unimpressed. He’d asked for an army. He’d only gotten Steven.

He refused to allow Steven to prove his worth on the battlefield.

Instead, he would be given a chance to make a difference outside of combat.

“I will make him change his mind.” Lady Margaret’s fondness for Steven couldn’t quite be hidden any longer. She championed his cause, appealed to Phillips, to her own superiors. All to no avail.

“It’s fine. The Fates have something else planned.” He hoped that the threads of their own fates would bring them close once again.

He traveled across the realms. He performed feats of strength and agility. He rallied the support of the common man, persuaded them to pour their coin into the Allied cause.

It pleased him to be of use.

To be loved and praised.

To feel as though he were making some kind of a difference in the war that was ripping his world apart with increasing vehemence.

Over the months of his service he grew tired and sad. He realized what he truly was—a trained animal, a circus bear to dance with flashily clad maidens while the peasantry threw coins into the ring—a freak made by magic that those who knew of his secret spoke in whispers around.

Finally, he made his own way across the Wide Waters. He was tasked with cheering troops of tired, sad men who found themselves living in a world that hardly extended beyond the muddy terrain under their feet and the weapons in their hands. Everything seemed dingy, like it had become a feeling and seeped into the marrow of everything and everyone.

The men threw food at him.

Steven found that he couldn’t blame them.

Who was he? Who was he to think that a performing monkey would give them any joy? Especially when the performer had somehow been spared sharing their fate?

“Is that truly how you see yourself?” Steven’s heart skipped a beat at the familiar lilt of Lady Margaret’s voice. He’d been scribbling in his journal, drawing caricatures of what he couldn’t find the words to express his feelings about.

Steven looked over his shoulder at her. Even in the heavily falling rain and the wash-water-grey backdrop of the sky, she seemed to radiate light. “Me? ‘Course not. I’m the _Star Spangled Man with a Plan_. I’m Captain America. I’m the walking embodiment of the whole’s realm’s fervor and pride from Breukelen to the Peaceful Sea.” He took a deep breath and closed his journal, tucking it into the pocket of his coat. “I’m doin’ everything I ever wanted. I’m makin’ a real difference.” Even he didn’t believe what he was saying. “And I’m doin’ it in stockin’s, yuckin’ it up like the king’s favorite fool. Hell, I _am_ the king’s favorite fool.”

“Steven, I—“

“No, you don’t need to say it. I should be _out there_. On the front lines, like them, _with them_. I don’t deserve t’do anythin’ less than they are.”

“You were… you were made for that—and more. You were meant for the front lines, don’t ever doubt that.” Healers ran across the camp, kicking up mud and filthy water. “This men, they’ve seen more hardships than most.” They returned with a bloodied man on a stretcher. He didn’t look long for the world. “You were performing for what’s left of the hundred-seventh.”

Steven whipped his body around to face her, “Hundred-seventh? Is that what you just said?”

Lady Margaret nodded, “Yes. The vast majority of them were killed or captured. They were overwhelmed by the Red Skull’s forces.”

Colonel Phillips didn’t seem to take the fact seriously that Buchannan was a member of the unit that had been beaten down, neither did he seem to take seriously Steven’s determination that a status of _missing in action_ did not automatically equate to _dead_. There was still a chance, however slim, that Buchannan had been captured. That he—and hundreds of others—were waiting to be rescued from enemy hands.

Lady Margaret took him seriously.

She saw the value of his conviction.

She saw the value of putting him—Erskine’s creation—into play on the battlefield in dramatic fashion.

They both understood that if he failed he wouldn’t even merit a footnote in recorded history.

They both understood that he still had to try.

Steven soon found himself standing in the middle of an open field with Lady Margaret and none other than Maester Howard Stark. He’d learned over the course of the afternoon, as they quietly made their plans to defy Colonel Phillips’ orders, that Stark wasn’t a typical maester in any sense. Rather than serve a lord he’d set out to become one and he’d done just that and more. Now, he was the kingdom’s primary source of arms and vehicles—and in large part a source of funding, though it would not serve to allow the common man to know that the kingdom’s coffers needed assistance from a self-made man. Steven stood in awe of the flying machine that Stark planned to move him across enemy lines in. It was like a massive bird, Stark yanked at levers and it unfurled articulated wings that made scissor-like sounds as the metal plates passed over each other. Stark shouted for help, instructing Steven to assist him in pulling the propeller down, rotating it until it was tight. He explained briefly that the feedback from propeller to wing and forward again through the levers and pulleys within the body of the contraption would keep them in the air. Over the sound of the propellers slicing through the air, Stark shouted for Lady Margaret and Steven to get on board. Once he’d closed the glass hatch of the driver’s seat, they peeled off across the field at high speed.

Steven thought he might be sick.

Quicker than he anticipated, they were flying low over the camp that held the Allied prisoners.

“You will send a signal when you’re ready to be fetched, yes?” Lady Margaret handed him a small looking glass. “With this, focus some light on the glass.” She produced a second one from her pocket, held it to the dim, yellowish light that illuminated the inside of the flying machine. The one in Steven’s hands warmed, he opened it to see the glow of the light reflected in his glass.

Then he was falling through the sky and running on cat-quiet feet through the camp.

It wasn’t hard to find the prisoners. When they were freed, they fought their way out.

Buchannan was nowhere to be found—until he was.

He laid in a daze, strapped to a table in a maester’s chambers. Confused and weak as he was, he refused to falter.

Even when the pair came face to face with the Red Skull himself.

It was an image Steven knew he would never be able to scrub from his mind. The man shed his disguise—a glamour that hid horrors—and became the embodiment of rage and hate.

Erskine’s magic was a fearsome thing that Steven didn’t quite understand until he was presented with it. The body it had given him was secondary. Its workings ran deeper than that.

Erskine’s magic took the good and the bad in the heart of the person it was given to and amplified them, made them tangible in ways Steven hoped no one else ever had to see.

In the end, it took days to reach the Allied encampment once again. The men he had freed from the enemy’s clutches were forced to walk through the territory they’d lost, to fight their way back to safety.

Lady Margaret was a flash of bright color across the still rain-soaked landscape as she sprinted across the camp toward him. She composed herself, searching him with anxious eyes and a neutral expression. “You’re late.”

So casual, as if they’d agreed to meet at a tavern for a meal.

“I couldn’t find safe passage.” He held up the looking glass she’d given him and opened the hinge, the mirror within shattered.

Steven smirked in a satisfied manner. Lady Margaret struggled not to replicate it, her eyes shining. “Nikerym.”

He smiled, wide and open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In "Captain America: First Vengeance" we learn that Peggy saved Erskine from Red Skull.
> 
>  _Nikerym_ is an Elvish word, from Tolkien, meaning "captain."


	5. Chapter 5

“Are they gonna kiss?”

Steve laughed, “What?”

“Well, Lady Margaret and Steven are you’n Mama, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Yer _always_ kissin’.” James made a face, scrunching up his nose and mouth.

“Well, we kinda love each other a lot.”

“A lot _a lot_.”

Steve laughed again, “You’re absolutely right.” He lifted himself off the couch where they’d settled when James was finished eating. “Let’s put a bookmark it in for a few minutes, alright?” James nodded and swung his feet down onto the floor as Steve added another hunk of wood to their small fire and poked at the embers to get them to catch. “I gotta go put yer sheets in the drier. How about you pick out a record? We’ll listen to some music and clean up the dining room for Ana.”

James readily agreed and Steve moved through the living room toward the stairs to the basement, interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Hey, Captain Rogers! I just finished.”

“Geeze, yer soaking wet! Come inside and warm up, I’ve got coffee percolatin’.”

“Oh, no, I really can’t stay. I gotta meet my girl fer dinner.”

Steve smiled and asked him to step inside for a moment. The steps and sidewalk might never have been snowed on for how precise the shoveling was. Even the wide stone railing was cleared off to keep the steps from getting icy from the dripping should the snow start to melt. Steve retreated to the kitchen to pull a few bills from the tea tin they kept for odds and ends expenses.

“Ca-Captain Rogers, this—this is way too much. I can’t take this.”

“It’s _Steve_ , for the thousandth time.” The young man looked mildly horrified. “Alright, Mr. Rogers then, if y’gotta. And yes you can take it.” Steve closed his hand around the five crisp dollar bills. “It’s Christmas.”

“Not any more!”

“It’s New Year’s then. Take yer girl someplace fancy, have some fun. You work too damn hard.”

“I—thank you. _Thank you_.”

“Yer welcome. Now get goin’. I’m sure you don’t want to go to dinner in wet pants.” The young man laughed and departed, a wide grin on his face and his shovel over his shoulder.

Steve jogged down the basement stairs and switched the wash. James was standing at the top when he returned, a record in his hands. “This one!”

Steve set the record on the Victrola and turned up the volume so they could hear it in the dining room while they tidied. “You know,” Steve said as he dismantled the train track set up on the tabletop, “If you feel better, maybe we can make some cocoa later.” He was met with enthusiastic agreement.

In the midst of their work, the doorbell rang. Ana met Steve with a smile and a kiss. “There is a box in the back seat, go bring it up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Steve went to her car and fetched the box like he was told, the cardboard was warm to the touch and it was filled with colorful Tupperware. “No Jarvis?”

“Edwin, unfortunately, is retrieving Mr. Stark from the elegant clutches of some Hollywood So-and-So.”

“He got you two getting’ ready for the New Year party?”

“Of course. Silver’s polished, bar is stocked, food is made. All we need are the guests.”

“Here’s to hopin’ Dum Dum doesn’t get so drunk this year.” Ana laughed heartily.

When they stepped into the dining room, James was stretched across the table, his toes pointed on the seat of a chair, as he swiped at invisible dust with a cloth. “ _Oh-_ ver there! _Oh-_ ver there! Hm-HM-Hm-hm _hmm_ show yer _grit,_ do yer _bit!_ ”

“Hello my little dumpling.” James smiled wide and hopped down off of the chair to wrap Ana in a tight hug around the waist. Steve turned the volume on the Victrola down. “It looks like you’re feeling better.”

“Uh-huh. Did you make dinner?”

“I did!”

“Whatcha make?”

Steve leaned against the china cabinet, “Peg should be home soon, if you wanna get started.”

Ana nodded, “Well, if you wash your hands you can help me heat everything up.”

James bounded into the kitchen and dragged a chair to the sink so he would be able to reach the faucet.

As it turned out, Ana had made them neat packages of chicken soup and goulash. “To get rid of that nasty cold and stick to those ribs!” James was delighted when the biggest of the Matzo balls appeared in his bowl later on.

Peggy came in with the wind, her cheeks pink and chilly.

“Anything new?”

“Ah, no, not exactly. We’ve hit a bit of a brick wall. Turns out whatever it was that the field team found, it wasn’t an obelisk. We’re having them ship it over anyway, just as a precaution.” She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of James’s head before she slid into her own seat. Steve placed a bowl down in front of her. She smiled gratefully at Ana. “Anything new here?”

“Fever’s almost gone. Haven’t felt sick all day. Ana’s gonna stay for cocoa before she heads home.”

James shrieked with laughter as Ana regaled them with the story of how Jarvis had discovered a massive hole in the floor of Stark’s home and the look on his face as he tried to make sense of it. There was a lull in the conversation as Steve poured thick hot cocoa out of a sauce pan and into mugs. “Papa, you didn’t finish your story. About Lady Margaret and Nikerym.”

Peggy raised a brow, Ana leaned forward with interest.

Steve cleared his throat. “Well, Lady Margaret was a fearsome thing to behold on the battlefield.”

“Are the Howlies in the story too?” James licked his sugary-sweet moustache away.

“Absolutely.”

Peggy put her mug down and pinched James’s cheek affectionately. “And Lady Margaret gave them all a run for their money.”

Steve laughed, “Yes, she did.”

“But they were all the best of friends and they stayed that way.”

“How about we save the rest of the story for tomorrow?”

James looked disappointed for a moment before the implication that Steve would stay home with him the following day as well set it. “Okay!”

Much later, after James was in bed, Ana stood and stretched. “I’m afraid I have to leave before I turn into a pumpkin.”

“Isn’t it the coach that turns? Not the princess.”

Ana laughed, “That’s how you can put me in your story. Princess Ana, rescued by Sir Edwin after she gives him a token of love.”

“Now that’s an exciting story all on its own.” Peggy walked her to the door and saw her safely to the car while Steve waited on the landing. “Phone us when you get home so we know you got there in one piece.”

“You’re still coming to the party?”

“Long as James is alright.”

“Good. Then I won’t have to suffer your _Howlies_ and whatever new young slip of a thing Howard brings home all on my own!” She waved as she pulled away on the glistening street.

After Ana’s check in, Peggy came up to bed. Steve was still sitting up, working on line art. He tipped his head to the side to catch Peggy’s lips against the corner of his mouth as he finished sketching in the sweeping curve of the hero’s cape.

Peggy hugged him around the shoulders and rested her chin against the top of his head. “Angie wants to come over tomorrow, entertain James while you work.”

“That’ll be great.” He put his pencil down and twisted in his seat, pulling Peggy down into his lap to kiss her properly.

“So, Lady Margaret and—“

“Nikerym.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

“Captain.” Peggy snorted in amusement. “You’re an elf, you know.”

“Am I?”

“Mhm.” He kissed her again, softly. “More beautiful than the sun. Stronger than she looks—hell of a right hook. Deadly with a bow and arrow. Commanding the attention and respect of all who find themselves in her company.”

Peggy pursed her lips, “Sounds about right.” She laughed out loud when Steve lifted her easily and deposited her into bed with a bounce. He leaned over, his arms wrapped around her and pressed his lips to her throat, the mattress shifting as he shifted his weight from his elbows to his knee and hip. He leaned backward to pull the chain on the bedside lamp.

“Kin I sleep with you again?”

“Of course, mo leanbh.” Steve and Peggy scooted to opposite sides of the bed to make room. Peggy held her hand out, beckoning James out of the dark hallway.

The boy burrowed into Peggy’s side, “G’night, Mama.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> James is singing [Over There](http://www.library.ucsb.edu/OBJID/Cylinder4470) by Billy Murray. You can find that song, plus thousans of other recordings, for free, from the USCB Cylinder Audio Archive. It's a really amazing conservation project that you might want to consider supporting! You can adopt your very own wax cylinder to ensure that it's properly preserved and digitized for everyone to enjoy.
> 
> The five bucks Steve gives his snow-shoveler is about equivalent to $44 today, so you can understand why the kid thinks he's being too generous.


	6. Chapter 6

Maester Stark’s estate was warm and bright and full of laughter. The assembled party gathered in the great hall around the grand old clock as it ticked out the final seconds of the year.

Midnight was met with the shrill sound of cheering and clanging pots and pans and the clink of crystal glasses.

In the midst of it all, Lady Margaret found Steven, her Nikerym, and threaded her fingers into his hair to pull him down for a kiss. As they parted a second cheer erupted. Steven’s cheeks glowed red and Buchanan pressed a glass of golden, bubbly drink into his hands.

Fortunately, Young James was dreaming in the overstuffed seat by the fire and did not witness the latest of their endless kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you liked it!
> 
> Happy Holidays! Merry Steggymas!


End file.
